"And he wouldn't trust it to Ramon until after he was dead!" said the girl with sudden intuition. "If it exists we'll find it here."
She started toward the paper-stuffed desk, but I stopped her.
"More likely the safe," said I.
Tim, who was standing near it, tried the handle.
"It's locked," he whispered.
I fell on my knees and began to fiddle with the dial, of course in vain. Miss Emory, with more practical decision of character, began to run through the innumerable bundles and loose papers in the desk, tossing them aside as they proved unimportant or not germane to the issue. I had not the slightest knowledge of the constructions of safes but whirled the knob hopelessly in one direction or another trying to listen for clicks, as somewhere I had read was the thing to do. As may be imagined, I arrived nowhere. Nor did the girl. We looked at each other in chagrin at last.
"There is nothing here but ranch bills and accounts and business letters," she confessed.
I merely shook my head.
At this moment Brower, whom I had supposed to be sound asleep, opened his eyes.
"Want that safe open?" he asked, drowsily.